


Life Imitates Art

by ifyouwerewater



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyouwerewater/pseuds/ifyouwerewater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake as a poet who finds a muse in Clarke Griffin. Clarke Griffin as a visual artist who finds a muse in Bellamy Blake. Mutual infatuation leads to mutual destruction. Modern AU. Inspired by a line from the poem "You’re in Love With a Girl" by A. Davida Jane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Imitates Art

_ [every word you’ll ever write will be half made of her](http://wefragilehumans.tumblr.com/post/118182749266/youre-in-love-with-a-girl-whos-a-haunted-house) _

 

They meet in a coffee shop, or something of that nature – anything to fit the narrative of the writer and the artist falling in love. It’s in Brooklyn, she’s pretty sure, but her mind is scattered and she forgets the names of places as often as she forgets the dates they plan. They do meet in Brooklyn, he remembers, although it’s a bar and not a coffee house. He never forgets names, or dates, or the way she always takes his breath away, or the shirt she wears when the weather is nice and she is in the mood to go out, or the way her lips taste after breakfast: like dark roast with three sugars. She, in turn, never fails to remember the exact shade of pink his cheeks turn when she kisses him in front of other people, or the shadows that dance in his eyes when their kisses become hungry.

This is how their love swallows them whole.

 

* * *

 

He walked in like he owned the place. Black leather jacket, dark blue t-shirt, hair slicked back in a way that made her wonder if it was done professionally, he seemed like the type. “Barkeep,” he said in a low, deep voice. “I’m going to need something that burns.” He smiled, pulling up the left corner of his mouth. When the bartender did not look up, the man’s smile faded. “Hey, Miller!” he said, louder. “I’m talking to you!”

“Oh, man,” replied the bartender, Miller, as he distractedly scratched the back of his head with his index finger. “Sorry about that, Blake. Rough day?”

“Yeah.” It was more air than vocabulary, and she saw it leave his mouth, the color light blue. (Later, when she painted the scene, the air was a soft gray, so other people would understand. But she saw light blue.)

She turned back to her date for the night. He was nice to look at– the low light hit his face at interesting angles and she found herself paying more attention to the shadows thrown by his eyelashes than to the things he was telling her. Every sentence of his started with "my friend" and became about himself, and she grew bored quickly, but every time he blinked she swore he was a masterpiece. She gave up within the hour. "You should go home." It was a blank statement, clear. He stopped mid-sentence and looked up at her, frozen.

"Excuse me?"

"You should go home." Pause. "I can't do this right now." Pause. "It's not you, I've just had a long day." Finally, he nodded, stood, and walked out after a short "I'll call you."

She walked over to the man at the bar, who was about to start in on his fifth drink. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said lightly.

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow when he saw her, short and blonde and beautiful. He would find better words for her later, when his thoughts were clearer. "And why not?"

“Because you’ll hate yourself in the morning for it.”

“I’m aware of the consequences of a few drinks. If you have a better reason, maybe we can discuss.”

"Because I’m pretty sure I saw you getting out of the driver’s side of the car parked..." she squinted out the front window of the bar and pointed at a black car across the street. “...right over there.”

"Listen, princess, I’ve got it under control."

"Fine, do whatever the hell you want."

"Whatever the hell we want," he teased, a lazy smile appearing. He spun in the barstool and stopped with his back turned towards her, anchoring himself by way of his hands, which gripped the bar so tightly she saw all the muscles in his forearm flex. "Hey, Miller, she'll have whatever I'm having."

"Actually my date just left, so I will take a double." His smile widened, and she made the conscious decision to continue their flirtation. She liked the way his smile made her feel. "You drown your sorrows here often?" She asked, presenting him with a grin of her own.

"Only because the bartender is such a cutie." Miller took that as his cue, placing her drink down in front of her and winking. “And we live together, platonically, so he’s my designated driver.”

She laughed then, just a little. "Guess I'll come drown my sorrows around here too, sometime."

"I'll look forward to it."

She lifted her glass and brought it to her lips. Her eyes, dancing with amusement, never left his. She swallowed quickly, felt the liquid like ice and flame at the back of her throat, and said, “Just in case you want to call me something other than that clever little nickname you came up, my name is Clarke.”

“As in ‘Lewis and’?”

“With an ‘e.’”

“I see. Well I’m –”

“Blake?”

A short burst of laughter escaped him. “I see you’ve been paying attention to me, there, Clarke,” he swayed in his seat. “I’m Bellamy. Blake is my last name,” he groaned. “Bellamy Blake,” he corrected with a smile, suddenly sitting straighter in his chair. A hand shot forward and reached for hers. They shook.

“Clarke Griffin.”

“Listen, Clarke Griffin, I’m a little drunk right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes...and so I might not remember exactly what your name is.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah...but I will definitely remember the distinct impression you’ve left on me.”

She smiled. “You sort of get more charming as the night goes on, don’t you?”

“I really am trying...anyway…”

“Anyway.”

“My point is, I need you to promise me you’ll look me up. Or something. Or just – just come back to this bar, okay? I’m here all the time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t patronize me, now.”

“I would never dream of it.”

“I’m a little drunk.”

She threw her head back and laughed, sliding off the stool and leaning on the bar. “How about I just leave my number here for you with the cute bartender?”

“Good idea, Clarke Griffin. You’re a smart one.”

“You bet.”

With that, she waved Miller over and asked for a pen and napkin. “Listen, he’s not a serial killer, right?” she murmured. Miller chuckled and shook his head.

“Not as far as I know.”

“Good enough for me.” When she finished writing down her name and number she passed it to him. “Give this to him when he sobers up?”

Miller nodded, and with a suggestive smirk, put the number in the front pocket of his jeans. “You really think you can handle that guy? He’s very tough, you know.”

Clarke watched Bellamy laugh, and when he was finished a content, close-mouthed smile dressed his face. He lifted his right arm and pretended to flex his bicep with an exaggerated look of concentration, so that his eyebrows pulled together and his lips pursed. “I’m very scary, Clarke.”

“That guy? Psh, no problem! I can handle that guy.” She waved to the two of them and started on her way out.

As she left, she heard Bellamy’s amused voice mutter, “Brave princess.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this will probably go up a rating or two as it continues, and the angst factor will increase a lot as well, but for now here's some fluffy drunk dialogue! And a huge thank you to bellarkesupernova on tumblr for being my forever beta!


End file.
